The look in her eyes was lethal.
And much to her chagrin, so was her delivery of my morning beverage.
Unfortunately, Jordan’s freak-out isn’t something she planned for, and I can tell that by her deer-in-the-headlights look.
Too bad the remorse is for the guy on the floor and not the one who got his balls burned off.
Down on his hands and knees with a swatch of purple fabric that he hurriedly pulled off a nearby worktable, Jordan starts to pat me down.
Jordan is a tall, thin man with blond hair that I am certain is a bleach job. He wears heavy black-framed glasses that I’m not certain aren’t just an accessory since he takes them on and off every few minutes. And bottom line: I only had to spend ten minutes with him to know he is talented as fuck, but that doesn’t mean I want him touching the hardware.
“You have to get this out before it stains,” he proclaims, looking up at me, his voice trembling with worry over the fabric.
“It’s fine,” I say, trying to remain calm. The fact that I’m not hissing through my teeth is testament to just how calm I am. Thank fuck I didn’t go commando. The extra layer might be retaining the liquid, but at least I’m certain the goods aren’t that badly scorched. Not that I’m aware of.
Shit. I’m not sure I can feel them. “Where’s the restroom?” I ask in a sudden panic.
Maggie is standing utterly still, like a mannequin at a department store, and I am almost certain her remorse for Jordan is gone, and now she’s really trying to hold it together and not laugh her ass off at me.
“Yes, yes, go to the restroom.” Jordan points through the frosted glass walls of the workroom. “It’s just a few feet from my office.”
Right, his office. Fuck me right now. Like I know where that is.
A tour would be nice.
I think I’ll wait to ask Maggie for that until later.
Standing up, Jordan rushes to the phone. Twisting around with the receiver on his shoulder, he says, “Maggie, be a dear and show Keen where the restroom is so he can get those dreadful pants off while I call down to the wardrobe closet to get some fresh clothes brought up,” and then twists right back.
The evil gleam in her eye matches the fake smile on her face.
Yet my smirk is completely genuine. “Yes, Maggie, be a dear and help me out of my pants.”
This is me keeping my edge, while trying to figure her out.
Hate.
Lust.
Disinterest.
I have no fucking clue what she is feeling right now.
In the meantime, I might as well get something out of this.
Maybe she’ll be a dear and pat me down, too.
Marching past me with narrowed eyes, she takes hold of my tie and yanks me out the door, muttering something under her breath.
Looks like asking for a handy is out.
Maggie
Keen Masters is the male version of Miranda Priestly from The Devil Wears Prada.
You know who she is—the control maniac who rules her empire with an iron fist. Okay, so how do I get that role?
Ha, just kidding.
But really, if it turns out Keen has a dog, and asks me to take it to the vet, I am so going to punch him right in the nuts. No, better yet, I’ll take his car. And the best part is, I don’t know how to drive stick.
Just as long as the little doggie doesn’t get hurt.
“When will the spring ads run?” Jordan asks me.
Since Simon Warren has been running on a skeleton budget since Cam took it over last summer, I am the sole fashion merchandiser right now. Before I started, the position was unfilled, the girl who held it having left before the takeover.
Addressing Jordan, and only him, because ever since the little coffee accident this morning Keen hasn’t looked at me once, I answer, “They are scheduled to go up in billboard form on March first and will start running in the fashion magazines on March fifteenth.”
Keen taps his pencil on the pad of paper in front of him. I can’t see it from where I’m sitting, but I bet he’s drawing pictures of girls’ boobs all over, or something like that. “In what markets are the billboards and which publications are the ads running?”
Jordan turns toward me.
I once again address only Jordan with my response.
You see, fashion merchandising involves developing campaigns, displays, and advertisements, all of which I have been preparing over the last two months for the fall collection.
Jordan’s head volleys back and forth between Keen and myself, both of us refusing to look at each other.
Apparently Jordan’s neck must be bothering him because he stands up and says, “What do you say we go to lunch?”
“Sounds great,” Keen and I answer at the same time.
“Super fantastic. You two decide where you’d like to go and meet me out front in five minutes—I have a few calls to return,” Jordan tells us as he hurries out of the room.